Age is not always a factor

So, this morning, in preparation for day number two of The Week of Getting Things Done, I headed down the street to my favorite local breakfast spot, Mozart's. This trip was very necessary, for a couple of reasons. First, I was hungry, and my fridge looked like this:

As you can see, the main contents were beer, pop, dog food, and leftover carryout containers, all of which contained stuff that should have been thrown out days ago, because I am a wasteful person. (Or, more kindly, because it's difficult to eat leftovers when your microwave doesn't work. Plus, leftover sushi isn't really a good idea anyway, is it?)

So, besides being hungry, I was facing the first task on my list, which, for obvious reasons, was to go to the grocery store, and as we all know, you should never go to the grocery store hungry. A quick stop at Mozart's on the way was definitely in order. 

So I get there, sit down, place my order, get some coffee. The place is almost deserted, with only about three other customers. Perfect. I get out my book and start to read while waiting for my food.

Then, THEY come in. A woman and her son, who looks to be about five. 

Crap.

Please understand, I'm not against the idea of bringing children to restaurants--SOME restaurants. If I had been in Denny's or Bob Evans, I would have had no right to cringe, flinch, or start up my internal bitchy dialogue. But Mozart's is NOT a place for children. The tables and chairs are wrought iron and set close together, like a sidewalk cafe but indoors. There are small, breakable knickknacks around. The food is fancy, and they serve alcohol. Classical music plays in the background. (See: the name of the restaurant.) If I was a kid, I would wrinkle my nose in disgust at this place. Being who I am, of course (older, with a discerning palette, inclined to read through a meal, not adverse to the occasional glass of wine with brunch), it's heaven . . . as long as there are no kids around. 

But wait, I thought. This place is also a pastry shop. Maybe they're just getting something to go. That would be all right. I watched them as the mother asked her son if he wanted a cookie or something. Good sign. There ensued a discussion about what gingerbread was, and would he instead like a gingerbread man? Yes, he would. The mother hands him the gingerbread man and then--oh no--tells him to go sit down. Where? How about there? Here? No, that table, the one by the Christmas tree.

The one RIGHT BY ME. 

Keep in mind, the place is deserted and has about 20 tables. And she instructs her son to sit at the ONE that is literally two feet away from me. 

My internal bitchy muttering turns to internal bitchy fuming. Of course, I can no longer concentrate on my book. 

So the kid sits down, and . . . nothing. He sits quietly in his chair with his gingerbread man and his glass of water and starts silently munching on the cookie--rather thoughtfully, I might add. He takes a quiet sip of water. I'm watching him, and he looks at me, and then he gives me a huge, adorable, and very sweet grin, and continues to quietly eat his cookie. 

And I feel like an asshole. A selfish, presumptuous asshole with no holiday spirit. Here I am assuming this kid is going to be a total brat like many kids in restaurants are wont to do, while he just wants to sit quietly by the Christmas tree and eat his holiday cookie.

His mother is still at the counter, talking about something with one of the servers. The kid doesn't make a peep.

Hmm, I think. OK. I smile back at the kid and pick up my book again. This is no problem. 

But then, a couple of minutes later, the mother returns, with coffee that is unfortunately in a real mug rather than a takeout cup. And THAT'S when it all goes south. Because this woman will not leave this sweet, quiet kid alone. Immediately, she starts grilling him, something about a loose tooth. Wouldn't he like it if the tooth came out? Weren't all the other kids at school losing their teeth, and didn't he want to be like them? Didn't he want to be a big boy? Didn't he want the tooth fairy to come? What would he buy with the money the tooth fairy left? Wouldn't he like to have blah blah blah?

The irony of this particular conversation was that it was, in fact, like pulling teeth to try to get this kid to talk. But the mother was relentless.

Keep in mind that she was sitting, literally, close enough for me to reach out and touch her if I'd wanted. (Within strangling distance, that is.) She was, in fact, physically touching my coat, which was hanging on the back of the chair across from me, with her sleeve for most of the time. Never once did she glance at me or give any indication that it occurred to her that her loud drilling of her son so close to me might be the slightest bit rude or irritating. 

At one point, she actually tried to explain to the kid what reverse psychology was, and suggested he might try using it on his brother. 

Luckily, they didn't stay very long. The kid finished his cookie, and they got up to leave. He looked up at me one last time and smiled again, and I might be mistaken, but I thought I saw a slight hint of apology in his grin. And I thought, you know what? This kid is going to turn out OK in spite of her. And my irritation just kind of dissolved as I grinned back at the kid and picked up my book once again. 

And that's when the Grinch's tiny heart grew three sizes . . . just kidding. But I did feel pretty cheerful for the rest of my brunch. And I did make it to the grocery store afterward, so that's something else off my list. Although it is rather disheartening that after throwing away the carryout containers and spending $90 at the grocery, my fridge now looks like this:

Not much difference, huh? Sigh. Baby steps, people.

[Note to burb: I am SO proud of myself! I couldn't get the second fridge pic to show up in the right spot, so I taught myself how to edit the HTML code and moved it that way. And it didn't take me all day, either. I think I'm finally getting the hang of this shit!]